


a rolling black out of oblivion

by MANIAvinyl



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (only for how bucky and steve meet), Anxiety, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Captain America: The First Avenger, Depression, Headcanon, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Steve Rogers, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Suicide Attempt, mental health, non-canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 04:51:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17257904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MANIAvinyl/pseuds/MANIAvinyl
Summary: One shot based on the idea that, maybe, it wasn’t Bucky who rescued Steve from bullies in the third grade, but it was Steve who rescued Bucky from himself during the winter of junior year.“What... what makes you listen so well?” Bucky sniffled, wiping at his eyes and lifting his chin. He swallowed, pulling himself together. “Who taught you to do that? Nobody listens anymore. Not really.”





	a rolling black out of oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from one of my all time favorite songs Desecration Smile by RHCP. Ok yeah thanks for checking this out!

Bucky shivered; Brooklyn winters were cold— so cold. His fingers trailed on frigid railing, and the iciness seemed to seep through his skin and all the way up his arm. But the pain felt good, he realized. He could actually feel it... and it wasn’t just numb— not at first, anyway. He let out a breath, and watched as it billowed in the air. The sky above was a pale gray, reflecting the concrete below his feet and the color of the river and buildings on either side. Everything seemed to be gray.

He knew it was the holidays— he’d heard it from the teachers and kids at school. He’d always heard of it, every year, but never really experienced it. It was a family thing.

His wrist hurt, and he almost laughed. That’s the only holiday gift he could get, he thought bitterly. 

He ignored the dull pain, and set his hand on the railing again. He pulled himself up so that he was sitting on the frozen metal, and looked down at his feet. Below them was a cord, holding the bridge up, and 70 feet below that was the swirling waters of the east river. He exhaled again, and a thought pushed his way to the front. Those waters will be the last thing Bucky Barnes ever sees.

The closer he looked at the river, the weaker the pain. All he had to do was let go, and let the peace take over. Because that’s what he wanted; it’s what he really came here to do. 

He exhaled again, realizing his heart was starting to pound in his chest. Still, though, he felt hollow, despite the numb, growing fear. 

“Hey! You!” 

Bucky jolted, startled for a moment, but didn’t turn around to look the source. He simply ignored it.

“Hey! I’m talking to ya. You, on the rail.” The voice continued, but Bucky still stayed silent, as if maybe if he ignored it, it would go away. 

“Are ya deaf? Can you hear me?” 

Bucky could tell that the person had stopped, and was facing him now. 

“Keep walking, kid,” he finally muttered, voice low. 

“What’re ya doin’ up there?” it said again.

“Nothin’ to you,” Bucky huffed.

“You sure?”

“Am I sure what?” Bucky said, finally turning around. The person he saw standing there was a vaguely familiar face, one he faintly remembered seeing around school every once and a while, but he was sure they’d never spoken before. He was skinny, and short, but his eyes were inquisitive. Bold, even. 

“I’m Steve Rogers,” the kid said, walking forward until he reached the rail to Bucky’s left, and leaned his arms over it.

“I don’t care,” he muttered. “What are you even doing out here, anyways? It’s Christmastime, ain’t it?”

“ _Tomorrow’s_ Christmas Eve,” Steve told him. “Don’t you know that?”

Bucky swallowed, staring across towards his left, towards Manhattan and the tall, gray, city buildings.

“I was sent out here to pick up some stuff,” Steve said, “You know, from the farmer’s market. ‘cept, I doubt anyone’s even there, with tomorrow and all.” 

Bucky didn’t reply. His gaze shifted down to the swirling waters below. From the corner of his eye, he could see Steve frown. 

“What’s your name?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Well, okay.” But Steve didn’t move, he just stayed there on the rail, just to Bucky’s left. He pulled out the newspaper rolled in his backpack, and unfolded it. He read for a little bit, and then spoke up. “They’re sayin’ that the recession’s starting to end,” he said. 

Bucky stayed quiet, but shifted just a little bit to let Steve know he was listening. Steve looked up, then quickly continued, reading the first line below the headline. 

“‘Stock market rises three percents in one month,’” Steve said, reading the first line. “Gee, well, that sounds promising.”

“Don’t listen to those,” Bucky murmured, half-surprising himself with his own voice.

“What?”

“You gotta look at the real stock market pages,” he said. “Not the headlines.”

“Oh,” Steve said. “Where’s that?”

“Back of the paper,” he mumbled. “By the listings.”

Steve folded the paper open more, twisting it over so he could see all the markings on the back. There was a graph, and lots and lots of numbers, and Steve chuckled.

“I don’t know what a word of this means,” he snorted. “Though, you do, I take it?”

Bucky just shrugged.

Steve leaned onto the rail again, tucking his hands into his sleeves to keep them warm. “You must be smart,” he observed. “Knowin’ these numbers, and all.” 

Bucky was silent for a while. He noticed the sky was growing dimmer; there was still light, but it wouldn’t last much longer. 

“You’d better get going,” Bucky breathed. “Don’t want you to be late for dinner.”

Steve smiled, squinting up at the sky again. “I don’t really care about that.”

“You should,” Bucky replied quietly. His stomach turned, and he felt as if with every move, spikes of fear shot up his chest. He hardly understood it. He wanted this, didn’t he?

“You know, you never told me what you were doin’ out here.”

“I said it doesn’t matter to you.”

“Well, it kinda does. Right? ‘cause I’m standing right here.”

A confused pause. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“Well, see, if you were to jump from the Brooklyn bridge, I’d see it. So it would matter to me.”

Bucky froze, and the tingling feeling settled in his chest. 

“Why do you think I’m about to jump?” Bucky whispered. 

“Well, you were, weren’t you?”

Bucky shook his head, but it was mostly in disbelief. He inhaled, hating how suddenly shaky it was.

“I don’t know,” Bucky said finally, tilting his head towards Steve. 

Steve was quiet, and Bucky could tell he was thinking. 

“How come?” he asked, after a while. There was something about the way Steve said it, though, casual and curious but also gentle. 

“You wouldn’t get it anyways,” Bucky whispered. “Go home, Steve. Forget about it.” His name felt foreign on Bucky’s tongue. 

“I know I don’t get it,” Steve murmured. “But tell me anyways.”

“Well, what if I don’t want to tell you? What if I just want...” he swallowed, blinking down at the water. His eyes hurt with the familiar stings of tears. “What if I just want you to leave, so I can leave, too?”

Steve swallowed, looking up at the city with that squint in his eyes. “You can jump, then.” he said quietly. “Ain’t nothin’ I can do to stop you. Only you can do that. But I’m still gonna be standin’ here.”

Bucky was devoid of hope, he realized. When he thought about the future, he saw only suffering, and pain and guilt. Yet when he looked at the water, he saw a way for it to all go away. One moment, and then he, and all his sorrows left here on earth, would be gone. 

Because that’s what he wanted, right? For it to just end.

Besides, his younger siblings would be better off without him. If there was anything he knew for certain, it was that.

He listened to his own breath for a while, and watched the clouds billow and fade in front of him. 

“You know that feeling when you’re running,” Bucky whispered finally, “and you’re halfway through, but the finish line looks so far away? And you’re so tired that each step hurts, and you just want to give up.” He let out another breath, eyes fixed on the river below. “That’s what I feel like. And I’m afraid, ‘cause I think it’s never gonna go away.”

Steve just nodded, standing there, leaning on that railing, skinny and small and probably freezing to death in that little jacket of his. But he was still there.

Bucky didn’t know why he was talking. This kid was a stranger. Yet still, he was talking, and he found himself wanting to continue, so that maybe at least one person left on earth will know his story. Besides, it was something about Steve, in the loneliness in his eyes or maybe the way he held himself, that pushed Bucky on. 

“It’s crazy how... how _void_ you gotta be to... to want to do this.” He swallowed. “But there’s just nothin’ I can do. You know? All the signs are pointing at this, so I just gotta do it.”

“Maybe,” Steve breathed. “But maybe not.”

“You don’t know me.” He paused, shaking his head. “You don’t know my reasons.”

It seemed like Steve was thinking for a moment before responding. Bucky decided that he liked that, liked the respect that Steve seemed to give him just by thinking about what to say next. 

“Then tell me,” Steve said. “About yourself. About your... reasons.”

“You know,” Bucky sighed, “you shoulda just kept on walkin’. This ain’t worth it, I promise you that.”

“Hey, that’s for me to decide, not you.”

“Guess so,” he mumbled.

“Go on, then. I’m listening.”

Bucky seemed to struggle for words to start. He inhaled shakily, wiping his nose on his sleeve once and then pressing his lips together. 

“I didn’t used to be like this,” Bucky whispered. “I was a happy kid. At least, I think I was. I was normal, was all. And now I’m not normal, but to everyone around me, I _am_ normal. So I just hafta keep acting like I’m okay.“

“Then why’re you here?”

“‘cause I’m tired of acting,” he said, after a moment. “That’s it. I’m just tired of acting.”

“Right now, are you acting?”

“No,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky glanced over at Steve once more. His jacket was torn slightly, and he had the faint outlines of a fading bruise around his left eye. “You’re not very intimidating,” he murmured. “You’re a junior, right?”

“Yep.”

“So am I.” He inhaled slowly, then watched his breath billow in front of him. He shut his eyes. “Jesus Christ, I’m scared.”

“It’s okay.”

“Oh, come on. No, it isn’t.” His voice was starting to shake. “Nothing is okay. Don’t you get it? Nothing. That’s— that’s why I’m _doing_ this. Because nothing is okay.”

Steve only nodded. He didn’t try to argue, or even say anything; he just nodded. 

“And it doesn’t matter what I do,” Bucky continued, hating the tremor still in his voice. “‘cause it’s still bad. Whenever something good happens in my life, it just doesn’t matter,” he faltered, running the heel of his palm under his right eye, still staring out at Manhattan ahead. “It still feels off. Still feels like I’m dying.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispered softly.

“Yeah, me too.” He swallowed. “Me too.”

There was silence after that, and all Bucky could hear was the _shhh_ of the water below. But then he realized there was another sound he could focus on, and that was Steve, and his gentle breathing. 

“Wish I could’ve travelled.” he said finally, breaking the rigid silence. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to talk, and he wanted somebody to listen. “Somewhere far away from here, I think.”

“Where?”

“Not sure,” Bucky whispered. “Always wanted to see Europe,” he murmured slowly, voice still shaking. “France, maybe.” 

“Overseas,” Steve noted softly. “That sure is far.”

He shifted. “You know, I think in my past life, I was a sailor,” he whispered. “An explorer, discovering new lands. I like to think I’d do somethin’ like that.”

Steve smiled, gentle. “I like it.”

“Yeah, me too.” Bucky sighed. He stared back down at the water, and swallowed thickly. A stone seemed to lodge it’s was into his stomach, weighing him down. He wanted to give in, and it was a feeling that crept up on him so suddenly, yet was so strong. His shoulders felt too heavy to even hold up anymore. 

He heard a broken sob escape his own lips; It was all too much. He’d come up here so that he could die, so that he could be gone, so he would never have to feel anything like this again. That was the plan, so why was this happening?

“Gee... hey, it’s alright. It’s all gonna be alright... H-hey, do you think you could, um, just swing over to this side of the rail?” Steve’s voice was gentle, but even Bucky could hear the slightest tremor of fear. “Besides, aren’t you cold out here? You’ve been sittin’ there for a while.”

Bucky ran his sleeve under his nose, struggling to take a full breath of air. He shut his eyes tight despite the sting of tears, and swallowed around the familiar lump in his throat. He couldn’t cry. He wasn’t worth crying about.

Soon he was aware of someone talking, yet he was so far out of himself already that he didn’t stop to realize... the voice was his own. 

But the stone that had lodged its way into his throat only grew, until he could hardly speak at all, tears tracking their way steadily down his cheeks, and soon his words turned into choking sobs. 

His arms were growing weak, and tired of holding himself up on that railing. Steve must’ve seen him falter, because he surged forward suddenly.

“I’ve got you,” Steve said quickly, holding Bucky’s arm. His grip was weak, and Bucky knew that he could easily overpower him if he wanted— but the sheer fact that somebody else was there, holding him back, made him rethink his choice. Besides, he knew deep down that his fight, his drive, was gone.

“Come on. Just step over.” Steve‘s terror was masked with a thin layer of confidence. “Can you do that?”

Bucky nodded feverishly. His eyes stung, and air was sharp in his lungs with each quick, unsteady breath. He brought up his arm, wiping under his right eye, and winced at the contact between his icy jacket and skin. 

He let Steve help him down, still crying but lesser now, seemingly enough to pull himself together and stand on his own. His limbs felt like static, like they weren’t really there— like _he_ wasn’t really there. He rested his elbows on the rail, but couldn’t bring himself to look down at the water. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t do it. He shut his eyes tight, struggling for oxygen.

“I need to get out of here,” he whispered, shaky, stumbling backwards. “Please, I need— I can’t be—“

“Okay. I know. It’s okay, just... just come with me, okay? I’ve got you.” Steve was speaking quickly now, and pulling on Bucky’s arm, away from the edge. “Just come here, I...” Steve looked down at his pocket, and grimaced. “I have a few cents, okay? Let’s go get you somethin’ ta eat. There’s this, uh, really good bakery up the street— I’m sure you’ve been. Giovanni’s! It’s that place. Come on, now.” 

Bucky just let Steve keep talking and keep guiding him away, not because he’d lost interest in the bridge but because he’s lost his will to fight altogether. There was simply no energy left. 

Once they neared the end of it, right before the stone changed color on the real road, Bucky stopped. He didn’t look up, he just kept his eyes down, studying the crack in the pavement. He wiped his face but the tears just replaced themselves anyways. 

“What? What is it?” Steve asked, turning around. It was then that Bucky could see how worried he was. 

“You shouldn’t have stopped,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “On the bridge, you should’ve just kept on walkin’.”

Bucky could feel Steve’s eyes burning into him. Instead of shame, or broken pride like he expected to feel, he just felt tired.

“Yeah, well, I _did_ stop,” Steve said, and there was an edge to his words. “So you just gotta deal with that.” 

—

Steve refused to let Bucky walk home that night, even after the sky turned black and a light rain started to fall from the heavy clouds above. So instead they sat in the corner booth at Giovanni’s, and he let Bucky just talk, about anything and everything that came to mind. 

He told Steve about his parents, how his father was a soldier in the first world war, and how he never really came home from it. How his mother was a waitress who probably could’ve been on the silver screen, if she hadn’t married his father.

How he had two younger siblings, snd how he truly though they would be better off living without him, that instead he should just let himself become a distant memory.

He told Steve about school, and how he had always been a good student, and he’d always had friends but there was always something missing, even when everything was going well. 

He told him about his dreams when he was younger, how he wanted to be a doctor, because his marks were decent and he‘d always been good at talking to people, so why not. He realized it made him sad, how bright his future had once been... and now it’s just black.

After a while Bucky slowed down, and he could feel his eyelids growing heavy. He shifted, glancing up. He studied Steve for a few moments, noticing the way his eyes were cast down at the table, watching the reflection of he raindrops on the window. They were gentle, Bucky noticed. But behind them was life, and spirit, and that’s something rare to come by these days— somebody with spirit. 

“Hey,” Bucky whispered, waiting until Steve looked up, running his sleeve under his nose. “What— what makes you listen so well?” he asked, lifting up his chin. He swallowed, collecting himself again. “Who taught you to do that? Nobody listens anymore. Not really.”

Steve just shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just understand, I guess.”

“Well then,” Bucky huffed, shoving his hands in his pockets, “I’m sorry.”

Steve offered a smile, sad and small. It said more than words could’ve. 

“You know, personally,” Steve said after a while of silence, “I want to see California. Someday, at least.”

“Oh.”

“Cause you were talkin’ about where you want to travel, right? Well, I’d like to see California.” Steve picked at a scratch in the table. “I wonder if it’s like what it is in the films.”

“How come you wanna see it?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He was thinking. “The sun’s always out, over there. And it’s just warm sandy beaches and beautiful ladies.”

“That’s what California is?” Bucky asked, amused.

“I guess so. I’d just like to see it myself.”

Then they were both quiet. Bucky looked at Steve and suddenly realized that he would be dead right now if this kid hadn’t stopped for him. He didn’t quite know how he felt about that yet, not being dead, but he knew this much— he didn’t wish, anymore, that Steve had kept walking. 

He tried not to think too hard about what that meant.

“One more thing,” Steve murmured, waiting until Bucky looked up. “I... I never did get your name.”

“James,” said Bucky. “James Buchanan Barnes.”

Steve grinned. “What, like the president?”

Bucky cracked a smile, almost like he could’ve been laughing, if it were another time. Steve took it in, searching Bucky’s face, and found himself wishing it could last forever. His smile was natural on him, like that’s where it always belonged, despite the red, puffy, eyes and the deep, underlying sadness. It was then that Steve decided— Bucky was an old soul, from a time long before, from a time of true artists and love and old-world wisdom.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “But everyone calls me Bucky.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading + hope you enjoyed! Please tell me if you liked it!


End file.
